After The War
by Lily-Anne
Summary: The war is over, and Biggles is in hospital with a broken leg and a broken heart. One shot, reviews greatly appreciated


Disclaimer: Don't own him. Wish I did.

Takes place just after the end of World War One, and Biggles' unfortunate affair with Marie Janis.

_I'm going to die._

The young pilot watched in horror as the ground raced to meet him. The wind shrieked in his ears as he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed that death would be swift. Images flashed through his mind; images of ruined planes, some in flames, some merely shattered tangles of wood and canvas, some no more than piles of ashes on the scorched grass. Images of corpses, some bloodied and bruised beyond recognition, some burnt to a crisp, some still lifelike, with waxen skin and glassy eyes. But even as terror took hold of his body, another vision entered his mind. A vision with soft blonde hair, so pale that in the moonlight it seemed white. A vision with pure blue eyes that sparkled with delight each time they met his. A vision with smiling pink lips that had, on one glorious occasion, pressed against his own. Marie. She would be the last thing he ever saw before he died. He opened his eyes just as his ruined plane made contact with the earth.

"MARIE!"

Biggles fought to free himself from the tangled sheets. A bolt of pain shot through his leg, making him feel sick. He looked around, panicked, panting as if he'd run a marathon. Sighing, he wiped sweat from his face. He wasn't trapped in the burning remains of a Sopwith Camel. Instead, he was lying on the cold floor of a near empty hospital ward, having just fallen out of bed. His leg, which was hidden by a plaster cast, no longer hurt quite as badly, but it still throbbed rather painfully. Unable to muster the strength to climb back into bed, he laid down on the floor, welcoming the cool touch against his cheek. He shivered a little, although sweat still beaded on his brow. He wondered vaguely if he was running a temperature. He squeezed his eyes shut, and once again saw Marie, this time looking over her shoulder as she walked away.

Despite his best efforts to fight it back, a sob shook his narrow frame. In an attempt to distract himself from his sorrow, he dragged his weary, aching body into bed, frightened by the effort that the simple action required. He felt another stab of pain from his injured leg, and buried his face in his pillow, suddenly wanting to throw up. The nausea passed, only to be replaced by a fresh wave of grief. For what felt like hours, he sobbed into his pillow like a child.

A soft, cool hand touched his cheek, and he rolled over, visions of Marie dancing before his mind's eye. Instead, he found himself looking into the worn, creased face of Cecilia, the nurse in charge of his ward. He blushed and wiped his eyes, sniffling. Cecilia gently pushed him back down onto his pillows and straightened his sheets.

"Do you want something for the pain?" She asked. Biggles shook his head, uncomfortably conscious of his tear-stained eyes and runny nose. He sniffled again.

"You have a cold?" The nurse asked, tucking his blanket in a little tighter. He shook his head, not meeting her eyes. He wanted to be left alone with his misery.

"Do you want to talk?" She asked. He shook his head again, and tears spilled over his cheeks. Cecilia held his hand and brushes sweat-soaked hair from his forehead.

"There, there." She whispered.

"I'm _not _crying." He growled, determined, but his voice trembled with grief.

"There, there." She murmured. "I know you're not."

Cecilia stood by the bedside, gazing sadly at the young pilot who lay before her, trembling with suppressed sobs, avoiding her eyes. For a week now he had been in hospital. She had been there the day he had been brought in, his comrades crowding around him, anxious to make sure that he received the best possible care. He was only a little man, slender enough to be a schoolboy. In his outsize flying kit, he had seemed ridiculously out of place. A boy trying to do a job that even a grown man shouldn't have to do. His leg had been broken, and a lump of lead had been firmly embedded in his flesh. His flesh, of course, would heal in time. His mind was a different matter. Every night since he had been here, he had woken, screaming and sobbing. Stripped of his heavy kit, he seemed small, pale and weak.

"Do you want something to help you sleep?" She asked. Biggles shook his head again. As Cecilia left, he curled up in his nest of blankets. To her, he was just another boy made to grow up in the most brutal manner possible. She would never know that his heart was damaged by more than war.

Shutting his eyes, he once again saw Marie, perched on the stone bench in her orchard, her pretty blonde head resting on his arm, her soft, gentle voice lulling him to sleep.


End file.
